


Memento Mori

by Calais_Reno



Series: May 4 [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Concussions, Don't copy to another site, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M, POV John Watson, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 12:57:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17183402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: John remembers Sherlock. He just can’t remember what happened to him.





	Memento Mori

I wake up and don’t know what’s different. I don’t know how many days it’s been or why it’s different. It simply is.

 

You’re not here, and I wonder if you finally went to get the milk. There’s a note on the refrigerator that seems to be evidence of that.

Block letters: MILK

I look in the refrigerator. No milk.

 

Greg is here, and I ask him what the case is. He looks sad.

“John…” he says, as if my name were a weight pressing down on his shoulders.

 

“I’m supposed to take care of you,” Molly says. She puts her arms around me. “He asked me to.”

“I’m fine,” I say. I’m really not, but I can’t explain why, so I don’t say anything else.

“He really loved you,” she says.

“Who?” I ask.

 

I remember lots of things. Mike Stamford. My sister’s phone in your hands. The cab. A dreary little bedsit. The lab at Bart’s. Your voice: _Afghanistan or Iraq?_

I remember the first time I saw you. I think I loved you, even then.

 

I make you tea. You don’t have to tell me how you like it. I remember: two sugars, no milk.

I always make the tea because you forget and leave the tea bags in too long and it’s bitter. You hate it when that happens, so I don’t ask anymore. I just make it.

I sit and drink my tea.

Your tea is cold.

 

“I'm Dr Harms,” he says.

I think this is funny. He should be Dr Heals.

He asks me questions. How old are you? What day is this? Who’s the prime minister? What did you eat for breakfast this morning?

 _These are concussion questions_ , I think.

Am I having headaches?

I turn to ask you why they think I have a concussion, but it's Molly sitting there.

“It's okay, John,” she says. “It's all right if you don't remember.”

But it isn't all right. You're not here.

 

I’m at Tesco buying milk when I find a note in my wallet.

_My name is John Hamish Watson._

_I live at 221B Baker Street._

_I was in an accident._

_I was in a coma for five weeks._

_I had a concussion._

_I have anterograde amnesia._

Someone is having a joke with me. I crumble the note and toss it in the bin.

 

I wake up and the telly is on, some show about rock climbing. It looks like fun. Maybe we could do that some day. I’ve climbed up the sides of buildings for you, grappling my way up fire escapes and drain pipes. Maybe that’s one thing I can do better than you.

I fell asleep on the sofa. Did I eat dinner? I don't remember. I'm hungry, so probably not. You weren’t here and I forgot to eat. Usually it’s the other way around, me coming home late from the clinic and finding you haven’t eaten anything.

I look in the refrigerator, expecting to see body parts, but it's clean. Someone made a pan of lasagna. Looks like takeaway from Angelo’s. There's some cake. White cake with white frosting and lavender flowers. A bakery cake in a box. _Whose birthday_ , I wonder.You're January, and I'm July.

The calendar on my desk says May 4.

 

It's late, and you're not home. The bed is cold, the bedding hasn’t been rumpled.

You must have told me where you were going. I wasn’t paying attention. Usually it’s the other way around. I tell you I’m going out and you just hum. When I come back, you’ve been talking to the skull.

I'll text you. Thank god for smart phones because I don't remember your number. Maybe I never did, but just now, I wish I could remember it. It would make me feel better, knowing that you’re only ten digits away.

I can still remember our home phone number from when I was a kid, when my mother sat me down and made me repeat it before I went off to school.

Why can’t I remember your number?

_Where are you?_

 

I'm looking at my blog. I haven't updated it in a while.Well, nothing's happened. You're probably bored. Mrs Hudson is counting on me to make sure you don’t shoot holes in the wall again. Maybe you’ve got my gun. It isn’t here.

The last case I wrote about was the one at the pool. We were ready to die that time. Who could survive that much Semtex exploding? It could have taken down the entire building, maybe even the entire block. Still, it would have stopped Moriarty, and that was all that mattered. We would have died together. We all have to die someday; I hope we’re together when that happens.

But we survived, didn’t we? We went home and kissed in the stairwell and kissed behind our closed door, and we made love in your bed. That was the first time.

Thinking about it makes me sad. Tonight, maybe, when we’re lying in the dark, our arms around one another, I’ll say it. _I’m sad and I don’t know why._

 

I’m looking at my blog. I haven't updated it in a while. There’s a case I should write up, but I don’t remember all the details. I’ll ask you later, when you’re not busy.

I make tea. Two sugars for you, just milk for me.

“Come drink your tea,” I say, loud enough that you can hear it from the sitting room.

Your tea is cold.

 

I check my phone. _At path lab. Meet me._

 

It's funny, but appropriate, that we met in the morgue. I was limping, and you somehow knew it was psychosomatic. Because of the way I was standing, maybe. Something like that. You knew about my sister. You thought she was a brother, but you had everything else right. _There’s always something_. You were amazing. Yeah, I said it out loud. Were you trying to amaze me? I think I was already in love with you.

I’m waiting for you. Molly’s looking at me, saying nothing.

“Is it all right if I wait?” was what I asked. You're not here, but this was where we agreed to meet. We’ve spent a lot of time in the morgue. Appropriate that we met here.

I think Molly’s about to cry.

“Are you all right?” I ask her. She used to have a big crush on you. I sort of think she still does. It’s fine. I had a crush on you, too. Unrequited love, back then, both of us. Molly, watching you swirl through the door asking for thumbs, or livers, or ears. Me, just following in your wake. You, being all mysterious and dramatic, with your cheekbones and turning up collar so you look cool. Swirling your long coat like a romantic hero. How could I not fall in love with you?

I wait, and Molly goes out into the hall and makes a phone call.

I text you. _I'm here. Where are you?_

I wait.

 

Mycroft is at our door.

“He's not here,” I say.

You would tell him to piss off, but I don't really mind your brother.Yes, he's arrogant and interfering, but I think he cares about you.

Have you ever told him about us? You might have, just to rub his face in it. Or maybe you decided it was none of his business.

“I know he's not here,” he replies evenly. His face is wrong, very odd, almost sad. “John, we need to talk.”

 

It's cold today. The calendar on my desk says May 4, but it feels like November. Or even January. Very cold. I think I'm supposed to go to work, but it’s not on the calendar. I can't find my schedule.

You always want to know where I am, so I write my schedule on the calendar. You generally ignore it, text me anyway to see if I can come to a crime scene, meet you somewhere to interview a witness.

You don’t have a schedule. I never know where you are.

They’re going to fire me. That’s what Sarah said. I’m never available when they need me because I’m always at your beck and call.

I don’t care. I’d rather be with you.

 

I’m thinking about Irene Adler. Even before we were a couple, she saw it. _The woman_ you used to call her. I thought you loved her. That she loved you. Those cheekbones. _I could cut myself slapping that face_ , she said. A striking couple. I could imagine it.

But you didn’t want her. She might have wanted you, I always thought. But you chose me.

Was I easier, more convenient? I absorb all your sharp angles, diffuse your rudeness, explain your eccentricities. I remind you to put your trousers on, to stop leaving experiments around the flat, to act like a grown-up. I make you tea and put food in front of you, stop at Tesco so we have milk. Is that what you want?

If that’s all you want, it’s enough for me. I can give you more, even if you never ask.

 _He’s better with you_ , Lestrade once said. I didn’t know you before, in the bad days of your addiction. I didn’t know _that_ Sherlock. And Lestrade didn’t know about us when he said this to me. He didn’t know we were lovers. I’m sure of that. We were not going public, not yet. I needed time to understand it all, to say goodbye to my cherished notions of heterosexuality. And you didn’t want the distraction of people sticking their noses into what was between us. You’re a very private person, I think.

You’re my person.

Maybe people hated you before you were mine. I don’t know. I was a different person before you, too. I know this for a fact. Less interesting, less content. An unremarkable man, shuttled aside by impersonal bureaucracy, destined to live a boring bedsit life. I used to hold my gun in those first days back from Afghanistan. I used to look at it and think, _this is how it ends._ You made me forget all that, ignore the voices that said, _maybe you should have died when that bullet went through your shoulder._

You’re fascinated with my scar. The first time I took off my shirt in your presence, you had to touch it. We were ripping our clothes off, tumbling into your bed, and you stopped, put your fingers in my scar, gently tracing the exploded flesh left behind. It was the most intimate thing I had ever experienced.

 _If you had died_ , you said. You didn’t finish the thought. I knew. _We never would have met._ _I would never have loved you. I would be a different person._

But it wasn’t the bullet that almost did me in. It was feeling useless, alone, irrelevant that nearly killed me. You poured meaning into the empty shell of my life. You showed me who I was. I wasn’t just an ex-army captain, an ex-surgeon. To you, I was something rare and precious. Something real and important.

 _Though not luminous yourself, you are a conductor of light,_ you said. _You illuminate my mind, stimulate my genius._

No one had ever said anything like that to me. I felt as if you had peered inside me and found something I didn’t even know was there.Something that mattered.

 

The doctor is asking me questions. Then he’s talking to Molly. _Anterograde amnesia,_ he says. _Inability to form new memories._

Molly holds my hand. She's worried about me, I can see it in her face. She presses her lips together. There’s something she needs to ask, but she doesn’t want to hear the answer.

“When will he remember? The accident was May 4— months ago.”

He shines a light in my eyes, peers into them. “How did it happen?”

“A bike knocked him down,” she says. “He hit his head on the pavement.”

The doctor’s ID says _Harms_. I think this is funny. A doctor who _harms_ instead of _heals_.

You might laugh at that. Or just snort. You always claim to hate puns, but I never fail to get a reaction out of you when I make one. _Lowest form of verbal humour._ They’re not, really. I think fart jokes rank lower.

I smile, remembering how I tried to tell you a joke so bad, you would actually laugh. It took a while, but I did it. Now, all I have to do is say _dead ringer_ and you snort.

Molly sees me smiling, looks puzzled.

“The effects of traumatic brain injury are hard to predict,” Dr Harms says.

I nod. “Some patients never remember the events surrounding their injury.” I don't know why I'm saying this. Molly is a doctor. She already knows.

 

Harry calls. She's drunk. She keeps saying, _you need to forget that bastard._

She's never liked you. The time I fell off the fire escape and broke my arm, she said you would get me killed someday.

Maybe you would have, but I really wouldn't mind dying like that. If I have to die — well, everybody has to die eventually. But I would rather die at your side, maybe saving your life. I have always loved this, what we do. When I first found you, I knew it was what I needed. I’d been ready to die when I went to Afghanistan, a casualty in a war that nobody cared about. It would be better to die for you, though, for someone I love. For everything that I love— the danger, chasing suspects, running down dark alleys with my gun tucked into my waistband. I would do anything to protect you, even if it got me killed. That's just how I feel.

It would break my heart if you died.

 

It's late and you're not home. There's lasagna in the refrigerator, but it's mouldy.

 

Harry calls. She asks me if I’ll move in with her.

“I have a flatmate,” I tell her. She’s my sister, so she ought to understand. She knows how we always end up fighting when we’re together more than five minutes. “What’s wrong?” I ask. “Are you and Clara okay?”

Clara left months ago. I didn’t know.

 

Greg and Molly are here.

“My flat’s big enough,” Greg says. “Why don't you come stay with me for a while, mate?” His wife has left him. Maybe he's lonely.

“I'm fine,” I tell him. “This is where I live. With Sherlock.”

“John,” Molly says. “John…” She bites her lip, trying not to say something.

Greg doesn’t look at me. “He's not coming back, mate,” he says.

I'm confused. _Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?_ “Did he tell you that?”

They look at each other. Molly starts to cry. Greg looks like he's about to cry.

“He's dead, John.”

 

The most afraid I’ve ever been was when I was in Afghanistan.

We don’t talk about it. Because— we don’t talk about it.

My therapist, Ella, said I should talk about my experiences in in the war, that it would help me to deal with it. PTSD, she said. Sure, but I didn’t want to talk about it. So she told me to start a blog. _Write about it._

I tried writing about it once. It’s still a saved draft. Just a pale shadow of what I dream about. And it didn’t help. Somehow, writing about it diminishes it. Trivialises it. Makes me feel like I should just get over it and move on. Without writing about it.

I was afraid when I was in Helmand. It would be insane not be be afraid with people shooting, shells dropping all around, and the general chaos. Civilians horribly wounded. Friends on the operating table, their bodies mutilated beyond recognition.

I dream about it. Often.

I dream about your head, your beautiful face. Blood. I dream that I’m too late, that people are holding me back from you, that I failed, that you’re one more life I can’t save, one more body to be buried.

I wake up, sweaty and afraid. Please tell me: _it’s just a dream, John._

 

I’m taking a walk. Actually, I was going somewhere, but I’ve forgotten where.

I check my phone.

Your most recent message: _At path lab. Meet me_.

I hail a cab and head to Bart’s.

 

Mike Stamford is here, buying a cup of coffee. He smiles, but he’s not really happy to see me.

“John,” he says. “What brings you to Bart’s?”

I can’t remember, so I make a joke. “Looking for a flatmate.”

He doesn’t laugh. “Sit down, John. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

I’m having coffee with Mike Stamford. He’s sending a text to someone.

While he’s typing, I check my phone. _At path lab. Meet me._

He’s sent his text and looks up at me, smiling. “Sorry about that. Where were we?”

I bin my cup. “Thanks for the coffee, Mike, but I have to go.”

Molly is standing at our table. “Hi, John.”

She and Mike exchange looks.

“Is he in the lab?” I ask. “He said I should meet him there.”

She shakes her head. “Let me take you home, John.”

 

Mrs Hudson is cleaning out the refrigerator.I tell her not to touch your mould experiment.

“Oh, John,” she says, and there are tears in her eyes.

 

I find a note on the refrigerator.

_My name is John Hamish Watson._

_I live at 221B Baker Street._

_I was in an accident._

_I was in a coma for five weeks._

_I had a concussion._

_I have anterograde amnesia._

I put the note inside my desk _._

 _Not my handwriting,_ I think. _Odd._

 

There's nothing on the telly worth watching. You always make fun of how much I love watching crap, but at this moment there is literally nothing that I want to watch. There was a show about rock climbing, but now it’s over. One of the climbers was an amputee. He had a specially-designed prosthesis.

I think I’d like to try rock climbing one day. My shoulder might give me some trouble, but my leg never bothers me anymore. You cured that, showed me that all I needed was danger to make me forget that it hurt.

It’s late, but you’re still out. 

I crawl into our bed, expecting to smell you, but the sheets have been washed. They smell like fabric softener.

I can't sleep. I wish you'd come home.

In the kitchen, you've left your tea untouched.

 

Mrs. Hudson cleaned the flat while I was out. You're going to be angry that she threw away your mould experiment. She even put your violin away somewhere. I thought she liked hearing you play. Maybe she didn't. She never said.

“Oh, John,” she said, hugging me. I don’t know why she’s upset. Maybe you said something about the mould experiment.

“He doesn’t mean to be a berk,” I tell her. “I’ll talk to him when he gets home.”

She carries on hugging me for a while, then pats my face.

 

I go to Tesco to get milk. There was a note on the refrigerator: MILK.

I come back, look in the fridge and there are already two containers of milk. I add the new one and unpack the other groceries. They had that pasta you like, so maybe we can have that tonight. Not as good as the pasta you make, but pretty good.

I remember the first time you called me _love_. We hadn’t even kissed yet. It was during the anxious, sweet days before I gave up the pretence, the _just friends / flatmates / colleagues / not gay_ defence. You always knew, I think; it took me longer to see it.

We were in the kitchen. I was unpacking groceries and you were making pasta. I handed you tomatoes.

 _Thanks, love_ , you said.

It went through me like an arrow, a physical jolt that went down my spine and left me shaken. _I’ve never been in love,_ I realised. _And now, I’m in love with Sherlock Holmes._ That was the moment when I knew; it frightened me. It thrilled me. I didn’t know what to say.

 

I put a sticky note on the bathroom mirror: _I love you._

When you come home, you’ll see it, and you’ll tell me: _I love you, too, John._

 

I’ll admit: you used to scare me. The way you took your life in your hands. The way I didn’t always know what you were up to. The cabby was just the first time I had to figure it out on my own and save you.

 _Save you_.

We’ve talked about this. We’ve fought about it. You _have_ to tell me things. Let me know what you’re planning. I feel helpless, not knowing where you are or what dangers you might be facing.

Maybe I can’t always protect you. But I must be at your side when you face danger. I love you.

 

There’s a sticky note on the bathroom mirror: _I love you._

I’m smiling. When you come home, I’m going to snog you senseless.

 

I'm at Tesco when I notice the Christmas decorations. They start earlier every year. The lights, the music, the sales.

You’ve never liked the holidays, but I always put up a few fairy lights anyway. Mrs Hudson likes that. She puts up mistletoe in the doorways, giggling as if she might catch us. I remember kissing you there, in the doorway, but nobody saw. This year, I’m kissing you where everyone can see. I don’t mind people knowing that we’re together. I want them to know that I love you.

 _I love you._ Can I say that?

You’re not one for saying things like that.

Maybe you’ll say _obviously, John._

Or maybe you’ll just smile. That secret smile you sometimes give me. It’s like a kiss that nobody can see. Nobody but me.

I think we should have a tree this year. Just a small one.

I don’t know what to get you for Christmas. Last year I found a nineteenth century medical text full of gruesome sketches. You loved it.

You gave me a ring, the skull with ruby eyes. _An antique wedding ring_ , you said. It has an inscription: _memento mori._ Remember that you will die. I wear it on my pinky.

We’ve been together now two years. Or is it three?

 

It's the middle of the night. The clock reads _3:07_. I’m awake in bed, covered in cold sweat.

Nightmare. Hospital. There was an accident. You were hurt.

No, it was me.

I was in an accident. I can’t remember what happened. You won’t mind if I wake you up and ask.

I feel your side of the bed. Maybe you're just in the loo.

No, it's cold. There's no dimple in your pillow where you were sleeping.

Before we became lovers, you used to hear me having a nightmare. I would cry, and sometimes scream. It was always Afghanistan in those dreams. I slept upstairs then. When you heard me, you'd play your violin until I was calm again.

I remember waking up in the night with you lying next to me in the bed, your arm around me. You felt me stir and sat up. _John? All right?_ How many times you’d already done this, I don’t know. I remember that one time. I felt sleepy and warm, and happy. You held me in your arms and rubbed my back until I relaxed.

It was always Afghanistan.

Now I dream about accidents. You, falling.

 

I don't know where your violin is. Maybe you took it into the shop for maintenance. Something about the pegs. Humidity makes them stick.

You haven't done an experiment in a while. Your equipment is in the closet, boxed up.

Your books are in the bookshelf, your papers in a folder on your desk.

You were never this neat.

Maybe I yelled at you. Sometimes, it gets to me, all the clutter. I don’t know why. I’m a git sometimes. I shouldn’t take it out on you, but I do. I’m sorry. I’ll apologise when you come back. I’ll kiss you and take you to bed.

 

You were talking to me. Just now. I can still hear your voice in my ears. You were saying, _You'll be fine, John. There's just this one thing I have to do, and then I'll be back. Don't worry._

But I am worried.

There is nothing in this flat that smells like you.

You left your tea on the counter. It’s cold.

Something is wrong. Something has happened to you.

I need to find you.

Here’s a pen. On my hand, I write: _wheres Sherlock_

 

I’m at Scotland Yard, asking for Greg Lestrade.

They let me wait in his office until he comes back. Sally Donovan is with him. He looks upset and she looks sad.

“Hi, John. What can I do for you?” He sounds tired.

For a moment, I forget. Then I notice my hand: w _heres Sherlock._ “I think something's happened to Sherlock.”

“John…” he begins, then looks at Sally.

“He's not coming back,” Sally says. She sounds angry. “We've explained it before. He's dead. He died over a year ago. You have amnesia.”

She sounds cruel, but then starts to cry.

I shake my head. I don't know why they’re saying this. “He's not dead. I just talked to him.”

“John.” Lestrade looks weary and unbearably sad. “He jumped off the roof of Bart's last year, on the fourth of May. He died instantly. You were hit by a bike, had a concussion, and were in a coma for weeks. That's why you don't remember. I've taken you to his grave three times, mate. I'm sorry.”

I shake my head. _Ridiculous._ “Why would he kill himself?”

“Moriarty ruined his reputation,” Sally says. “He couldn't take it.”

 _No,_ I think. _He wouldn't kill himself. He loves me._

 

_One thing I have to do._

What was the one thing?

Why don’t you just tell me?

We need to talk. I’m not just your flatmate. I’m your best friend, your lover.

Oh, of course. We haven’t talked about it. You see it as… what do you see?

We need to talk.

We are not just friends with benefits. This is not casual.

You mean something to me.

Did we talk about this?

Maybe we did. I know what I know.

You’re manipulative sometimes. You make me worry and drive me crazy. You take me for granted and experiment on me. But you’re not going to be unfaithful.

I know you. We might not have a name for what we are — _boyfriend, lover, partner_ — but we both know what it is. _You’re mine,_ you said. _My John._

You’re not going to keep things from me. You’ll tell me.

Won’t you?

 

In the shower, I notice something written on my hand: _w— Sherlock_

 _Git_.

 

I’m looking for my notebook so I can write up our last case when I find a note.

_My name is John Hamish Watson._

_I live at 221B Baker Street._

_I was in an accident._

_I was in a coma for five weeks._

_I had a concussion._

_I have anterograde amnesia._

I put the note back in my desk drawer _._

 _I didn’t write this,_ I think.

 

I’ve had a few patients who were in a coma. The family always wants to know, _When? When will he wake up and recognise us? When can we return to our life, the way it was?_

A coma is like time travel. It interrupts the normal timeline, takes out chunks of living, and then departs in a dramatic finale.

Sometimes there is no dramatic finale.

_I don’t know._

Five weeks is a lifetime.

 

Everybody thinks I’m straight. I used to bring my girlfriends home, introduce you to them. _I’m not gay_. I said that in front of you, more than once.

It hurt you. I can see that now. I knew what I was, but I was dragging around a lot of baggage. My dad throwing Harry out. My mum saying, _Johnny, you’re a good boy. Make us proud._

I’m sorry it took me so long to see what I was doing. Maybe I didn’t know what love was then. I was just trying to be the responsible one.

 

I'm shopping for your Christmas present when I notice that all the lights and decorations have been taken down. I take out my phone and look at the date. _February 19._

 

Thai food for dinner. I think that’s what you said. You like their egg rolls, so I asked for extra.

You're not at the flat when I arrive.

You didn’t leave a note.

I check my phone. You haven’t answered my last twenty-seven texts.

_You see but you don’t observe._

I walk around the flat, observing.

Your things, packed up. Your tea, cold, on the table.

The calendar: _May 4_.

My phone: February 23.

The last text I sent you: _Where are you?_

 _One thing,_ you said.

You're gone. I have to look for you.

 

I wake up and there's a newspaper clipping on the kitchen table. The headline: _Suicide of Fake Genius. Sherlock Holmes Jumps from Hospital Roof._ The date _: May 4._

I throw it in the fireplace and light it with a match.

 

We’ve never talked about it. You think _boyfriend_ is a silly word.

_John. My John._

We don’t need a word, not really. There is no need to define it. We were inevitable from the moment you asked _Afghanistan or Iraq?_

We haven’t told anyone. I don’t think anyone will be surprised, though. They’ve always assumed. I don’t mind. I love you.

You gave me a ring, a skull with ruby eyes. The inscription said _memento mori. Remember that you will die._ This might seem creepy to most people.

But you're not most people.

To me, it meant _we live for each other; not even death will part us_.

Death will not part us.

 

I text you: _I love you. Please come home._

 

I’m looking for a pen when I find a note in my desk.

_My name is John Hamish Watson_

_I live at 221B Baker Street_

_I was in an accident._

_I was in a coma for five weeks._

_I had a concussion._

_I have anterograde amnesia._

I set the note on fire. I watch until it turns to ash.

 

I go shopping, but forget the list. I was supposed to buy something for you. Maybe those biscuits that you like. Chocolate. You’re always asking for those. I buy two packages.

I’m bringing chocolate biscuits up the stairs when I hear voices. Mycroft is in the flat. I listen for your voice, but you’re probably sulking because he’s being an annoying prick.

I hear Mycroft saying, “Obviously, that’s not going to happen. He cannot continue this way, living here alone.”

 _Alone_? Is Mycroft planning to evict me?

I’m confused. If he thinks you’re on drugs again, I can vouch for you. You promised me. I know you wouldn’t.

_Why aren’t you saying anything?_

Now I hear Greg’s voice. “I’ve tried getting him to move in with me. He refuses. You can’t lock him up just because he can’t remember, though. He takes care of himself pretty well.”

“He needs supervision,” Mycroft says. “And he needs to stop texting. I’m going to have to delete the number from his phone.”

Molly’s voice. “That won’t solve anything. It will just make him worry if he thinks he can’t reach him.”

_Where are you?_

I reach the top of the stairs with your chocolate biscuits. They are standing inside the flat, looking at me. 

“John,” Molly says.

Something bad has happened.

“Where’s Sherlock?” I whisper, backing out of the flat.

 

There’s somebody in the flat when I wake up. I don’t know how he got in, but he’s sitting in your chair. He’s tall and ginger-haired, wearing jeans and a check shirt, reading the newspaper on a tablet. Taller than you, and heavier. A bit of a gut, but muscular.

“Good morning, John,” he says. He smiles like he knows me. “How did you sleep?”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Kevin,” he says.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

He carries on smiling. “I know you don’t remember me. Mycroft asked me to keep an eye on you.”

I say nothing.

“I’ll make tea,” he says.

_No. That’s what I do. I make the tea._

Still smiling, this person (Ken? Kevin?) goes into the kitchen and fills the kettle. He knows where the tea is, which mug I use. He doesn’t touch your mug.

“Do you want eggs this morning, or just toast?”

“Why are you here?”

“I’m a home care giver,” he explains. The words fall out of his mouth as if he’s said them many times before. “I’m here to take care of you.”

“I can take care of myself.”

He smiles. “Well, then. You’ll make my job easy, won’t you?”

We say our lines as if it’s a script we’ve memorised. _What comes next?_

I grab my jacket off the hook by the door. “I’m going out.”

He shakes his head, still smiling. “Let’s eat first. Then we can go for a walk.”

I don’t want to walk with Ken or Kevin or whoever he is.

“Where is Sherlock?” I ask. You wouldn’t like this Ken Kevin person, I decide. Too much smiling. And he’s obviously lying.

Kevin/Ken hesitates. He pours hot water into the mugs and turns to face me. “John—”

“No,” I say, clenching my fists. “I don’t know you. I want you to leave.”

He steps towards me, his hands up. “Let’s not get upset, John.”

I step back. “Don’t touch me.”

“I’m not going to touch you, John. But you can’t leave the flat without me. It’s not safe.”

 _Snipers,_ I think suddenly. _Snipers on the roof._

_Where is my gun?_

“Calm down,” he says.

My hands are not shaking. I swing as hard as I can. His head snaps back as my fist connects with his chin. I raise my knee sharply, hitting him in the groin. He groans and falls to his knees.

I run.

 

I wake up and it’s cold. I don’t know why I’m not in our bed.

I don’t know where I am. I don’t know where you are.

I was in an accident.

Someone was trying to hurt me. Or I was kidnapped.

I might have amnesia.

I need to talk to you.

 

I never told you much about my father, but sometimes I think about him. He didn’t really know how to be a parent. My mother was afraid of him. I was too.

He drank, and then he would get angry. About anything. He threw Harry out of the house when she decided she was in love with a girl.

I was the good one, the one who was meant to be somebody. It was my job to sustain the illusion that we were a normal family. I tried to be responsible, to make up for Harry and my mother’s death and his lost job and all the times we had to be in foster care.

One time he hit me so hard that I blacked out.

I don’t remember why.

 

I can’t go back to the flat, but I don’t remember why.

I need to talk to you.

I’m sleeping in a box now, and it’s cold.

You used to have a homeless network, people who helped you with cases. Some of them were just kids. Some were addicts, but most were just people who had no place to live. People down on their luck, trying to get by, looking to find their next meal and a dry place to sleep.

Apparently, I’m one of them now.

I don’t know where you went, or why. I just wish you would come and find me.

I miss you so much.

 

I dream that you’re flying. I’m on the ground, watching you as you take flight.

 

I was in an accident. I don’t remember the details.

I was running into the street. _Why was I doing that?_ Stupid. Not paying attention.

I was looking up. _What was I looking at?_

I remember being knocked down, hitting the ground, feeling sick, needing to run somewhere.

I remember calling your name.

People were holding me down, telling me not to move.

Maybe it was a dream. It feels like it was a dream, but I'm just not sure.

I think I was already in love with you before that happened. Yes, I’m sure I was. There were those tomatoes, your casual, _Thanks, love_.

There was the mistletoe. The kissing. I remember.

Yes, I’m sure I loved you before the accident.

Did you love me then, when I ran into traffic? Maybe. Maybe we had even talked about it before that day.

I lost a lot of days when my head hit that pavement. A lot of conversations.

I think you did love me. Your arm around me, as if we’d always slept that way.

 

I remember the day that Anthea picked me up in the black limo and brought me to an abandoned warehouse. Your brother was there, all posh and intimidating. I won’t lie; I thought I might die that day. I thought he was your enemy.

That was the first day I spent with you, and already I would have died for you. I stood toe to toe with your enemy and refused money to spy on you.

 _You don’t seem very afraid,_ he said to me.

I wasn’t afraid of him. I was afraid of losing you.

You said I should have taken the money. _Think it through next time._

I shot a man because he was going to kill you. I could not let that happen. Even then, I knew I needed you. Maybe we needed each other.

We ran down alleys, climbed up fire escapes, jumped from rooftop to rooftop, and you knew where every camera was.

I remember.

These days, it comes in handy to know.

 

It rained all night. I’m soaked through.

I’m a doctor. I’m aware that getting chilled doesn’t cause illness, but it does lower one’s resistance when one is shivering hard over a period of hours.

My hands are cold.

_Memento mori._

_Are you dead?_

There are days when I wish I was dead.

If you’re dead, my life is over.

 

I don’t talk to anyone.

I find a soup kitchen at a church. They give me some coffee and a bowl of bean soup. The priest tries to chat with me. I pretend to be mute.

If I don’t, there is so much to explain.

I saw one of your homeless guys the other day. Billy, I think his name is. He tried to sell me some heroin. He didn’t recognise me.

I don’t recognise myself. I look in shop windows, see a scruffy man with a beard. A man who needs a haircut.

People don't look at me. They keep their eyes forward when they pass me on the street. I am invisible.

I don't beg. My father never accepted charity, even when we had no Christmas presents, no heat in the flat, no food in the cupboard. We knew better than to beg. We didn't complain.

 

I missed your birthday. I wanted to have a party this year, but you would have hated that. Not a surprise party. You would have turned around and walked out the door if we’d all popped out from behind the furniture screaming, _Happy Birthday, Sherlock!_ I know better than that.

We could have gone out to Angelo’s, like our first date. Just the two of us. The candle — haha. We didn’t know it was a date, but Angelo knew. He always knew.

I think I missed our anniversary, too. That was January 29. The day we met.

I think I’ve lost my phone.

 

Most people think of memory as a kind of tape that plays back all the things you’ve lived. Get hit on the head, and the tape breaks. Pieces of it are destroyed, and when you try to splice it back together, there are parts that are no longer there. Then other people fill in the gaps for you, and even if you don’t remember, you know what happened.

Really, it’s like a mirror breaking into pieces. You’re sitting on the floor, trying to put the broken bits back into the frame, and it’s hard to tell where they go. They reflect things, but there’s no pattern. You’re picking up random shards, your hands are bleeding, and it doesn’t make any sense. You’re never going to see what you used to see when you looked into that mirror.

 

I’m undercover, on a case. I have a beard. I look like a homeless person.

You’re in disguise, too. _I'll be back._

I pass people on the street and look for your face.

 

I wake up in a box. I’m trying to figure out what’s different. I know something has changed, but I just can’t figure it out.

Clearly, I’ve been sleeping in a box for a while.

I have a beard, so maybe a month? Two months?

I want a cup of tea.

I miss you.

 

Someone has given me a cup of tea. No milk. But it’s hot, so I drink it.

I’m sitting at a metal table on a folding chair in the basement of some building. There are people here, sitting at tables. So, it’s a homeless shelter.

We’re on a case, undercover. You went to check something. _I’ll be back_ , you said. _One thing I have to do. Wait for me._

The priest comes over to talk to me. I ask for another cup of tea. For my friend.

 

_Memento mori._

Did you die?

If you were alive, I think you would have found me by now.

How long have you been gone?

 

I wake up in jail.

My fist is bruised and my eye is swollen shut.

Lestrade comes and bails me out.

“I’m taking you to hospital,” he says. His voice is kind and his hand on my shoulder is gentle. “You’ve been on the street a long time, John.”

I don’t know why I was arrested, or what going to hospital has to do with it.

I don’t know why I’m afraid.

 

I’m in hospital. I’m afraid, alert. I don’t know what I’m doing here.

I hear Mycroft’s voice, talking to Molly.

“No more minders,” he says. “That isn’t a solution.”

“It confuses him, having strange people in the flat,” she says.

He wants to section me, he says. _For his own good_.

“What would Sherlock think?” she asks. “That’s not what he wanted.”

“He expected me to keep him safe. None of us anticipated— the accident. If I have to lock him up, I will.”

She sighs. “I’ll take care of him. He knows me. He won’t get violent with me.”

I wait until no one’s looking, and leave.

 

I dream that you’re flying. I’m standing below, looking up.

You leap off the roof and fly towards me, swooping down to pick me up.

Together, we’re flying.

 

I’ve lost my phone. I can’t remember your number. Maybe I lost touch with you at some point, and now it’s too late. Maybe you went away. Maybe you’ve deleted me after all this time.

It feels like a long time. Everything is different, and I don’t know why.

Please find me. I miss you.

 

I’m on the roof, looking down at the street. There are police cars, lights flashing. People are looking up at me.

This is where you took flight. I still don’t know why you did it.

_Why did you leave me?_

I think maybe I’m dead.

I think maybe I can fly.

_Why did you leave me?_

I hear feet pounding up the stairs to the roof, where I am ready to take flight.

You must have had a reason.

 _Are you real? Do you love me?_ Or did my mind, broken by my own fall, simply invent you?

Maybe you’re not real. This hurts even more than you being dead. If you’re dead, at least I had you, once. At least you loved me. _Memento mori._

Did you love me? I think you did. _Your arm around me_.

I will fly. I will be with you.

I stand on the parapet, looking down at the street.

“John!” They’re shouting at me. “Don’t.”

They're looking up at me, and for a moment I think you're with me.

Maybe you loved me. But you're gone.

I’m afraid. Afraid to jump, afraid not to jump.

I spread my arms, prepare to take flight.

“John.” It’s your voice.

Then it’s your strong arms, holding me, and I’m flying.

 

I wake up in hospital.

I hear the beeps and pages and the rumbling of wheels down the hall. These are familiar sounds, forgettable sounds.

I’m so tired. I’ve been here before, I think.

There was an accident. I fell.

You flew. You died.

“John.” It’s your voice. “Open your eyes.”

“You’re not real,” I say. Because this is a dream and you are dead.

I feel a hand on my face. Long fingers run through my hair. I smell you — tobacco (are you smoking again?) and leather and wool and expensive cologne. Your unique smell. I haven’t forgotten.

“John.” I feel your lips on my forehead.

I shudder. “Sherlock.” It’s a whisper, a prayer. _Don’t be dead. I die every time I realise you’re gone._

“Look at me,” you command. Because you’re a self-entitled git who always needs an audience. Even when you’re dead. “Open your eyes, John.”

“Promise,” I say. “Promise you won’t leave. Sherlock, please. Don’t be dead.”

I feel a hand on my shoulder. “I promise.”

I open my eyes.

You look different, I think. Thinner, a bit sadder. There is a small scar on your temple, and I long to touch it, to feel the evidence of your existence.

“Sherlock,” I say, reaching for you.

“I’m here.”

“Are we dead?”

You take me in your arms. “No, love. We’re not dead.”

“I told them you weren’t dead.”

You smile. A smile just for me. A secret kiss. “You were right. I wasn’t dead. I only wish I hadn’t been gone so long.”

“S’okay,” I say, leaning against your chest. “Hasn’t been long. Jus’ a few days.”

“I missed you,” you say. Your voice is full of tears. “I missed you, John.”

I’m crying. I don’t remember why. You’re here, and I’m happy. “Take me home.”

“Soon, love. Very soon we’ll go back home.”

“I remember,” I say.

“What do you remember?” you ask.

“You loving me.”

You're crying. I don't know why. But you’re smiling, too. “I’ve loved you for a long time. Never stopped.”

“I’m going to kiss you,” I reply. “So everybody knows.”

 

I wake up. You’re still asleep, curled around me in our bed, your breath warm on my neck. I never get tired of this.

You shift a bit, pulling me into your embrace, kissing the back of my neck.

“Good morning, boyfriend,” I say. I can feel you smiling. You think that’s a silly word for what we are.

There is no word for us. No need to define it.

“Good morning, love,” you say.

I think about making tea. I always make the tea. Not that I mind doing it. It’s one thing I can do better than you.

You stretch luxuriously and turn me so we’re facing one another. You smile your secret smile. It’s like a kiss. “I love you, John.”

“I love you, Sherlock.”

You turn your head, fitting your mouth against mine. You run your tongue into my mouth, bite my lower lip a bit. I remember our first kiss in the stairwell. I remember the mistletoe kiss, the snogs in cabs and alleys and behind our door.

I remember you in the path lab, dramatically swirling your coat as you left. _The name’s Sherlock Holmes._

I remember looking at the flat, moving out of the horrible bedsit and into a new life.

I remember you finding the pink case and me shooting the cabby. I remember the five pips, the Chinese circus, the art gallery, the vest full of explosives. I remember thinking we would die, wanting to live the rest of my life with you, however long or short it would be.

I remember the first time you called me _love_ , feeling like an arrow had gone through me.

I remember the alleys and the running and all the cases.

The tea, the takeaway, the texts.

I love it all.

And I’m happy.

Our bodies fit together, all warm skin and breath, soft murmurs and moans. Your hand on my hip, my lips on your earlobe. We don’t need any words. Not for us, not for this.

I forget about the tea.

**Author's Note:**

> May 4 is the ACD canon date of the Reichenbach Fall.
> 
> Anterograde amnesia = the inability to form new memories.


End file.
